


Somebody Wants You (It Is Me)

by Joana789



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Doing It, Feelings, M/M, POV Derek, Sex, Sexual Tension, Stream of Consciousness, Werewolves, figuring it out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:51:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6437989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it should scare him in a way, and maybe it actually does, because he shouldn’t want to know, wouldn’t want to if Stiles were just a good fuck like Derek told himself he was, and perhaps he missed the point when anything aside from their breaths mixed together and Stiles’ body against his started to matter, and he wonders, How did I miss that?</p><p>And then he says, “No,” and “Stiles,” and “You can stay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody Wants You (It Is Me)

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wanted to experiment with my writing and style and that's the outcome, you have been warned.
> 
> It is... I don't even know what it is.

 

 

The first time they fuck, it’s in his apartment, and it’s rough and unexpected and it makes Derek feel _alive_.

Electric, he would say. But also demanding because that’s how things always work with Stiles, that’s how it is whenever Stiles is involved. Derek doesn’t really register how exactly it happens, but he knows that one moment they are arguing, just like they always are, like they have been for years, Stiles ready to fight and oppose and defend, and the next Derek has him pushed up against a wall and they’re kissing, hungry and deep and Stiles only breaks the kiss to breathe, “Yeah, come on,” and that’s enough for Derek, enough for the both of them.

So he steers them into the living room, biting on Stiles’ lower lip, swallowing the sound he makes at that and pressing him firmer against himself, then pressing him into the couch, simply because it’s closer than the bedroom. It’s all instinct, what they’re doing, and no common sense, but Derek doesn’t care. He’s always been all about common sense, about control, about not letting himself slip even once because mistakes, he’s learned, are something you always have to pay for in the end, and he’s been keeping everything inside of him, locked and secure.

Just once, he can afford not caring.

And then Derek fucks Stiles, fingers digging into the pale skin as Stiles’ head drops back onto the pillow and he gasps and moans and his hips arch up, up, canting, rocking into Derek and against and _with_ Derek. It’s rough and Stiles throws one leg around him, urging him closer, deeper, pulls his hair and yanks him into another messy, wet kiss, groaning into his mouth, shameless and loud, because Stiles is always loud. When Derek grunts and thrusts in deeper, Stiles moans obscenely, then breathes against his lips, pants, “Yes, there, fuck, Derek, right there,” and Derek can feel him trembling already.

Stiles comes first, messy, nails biting into Derek’s scalp, and Derek follows him a movement later and it’s good, an overwhelming kind of sensation, all physical and primal, something he hasn’t really felt in a long time.

They get dressed after, and Stiles leaves, his heartbeat still a bit too fast and skin flushed as he jokingly waves Derek goodbye.

 

* * *

 

Nothing really changes after that.

Derek doesn’t really see why anything should, anyway, maybe except for the fact that he was hoping for this ever–present tension between him and Stiles to finally go away – it doesn’t. Essentially, it’s fine, though, because they know how to deal with it and step around it. Stiles is still a smartass, sharp and quick, teasing and making fun of him just like he always does because this is simply how it works between them, so Derek lets him push his buttons.

He doesn’t feel guilty when it happens again.

This time, they are not arguing at all – it’s late, sometime after midnight, and if they were, it would’ve most likely woken Derek’s neighbours up by now – and everything’s as usual, Stiles typing on his laptop and Derek flicking through some old book because they’re in the middle of research, looking for some information about an unknown pack of werewolves that’s supposedly somewhere near, except that suddenly Stiles is looking up at him, eyes bright, and Derek doesn’t even get a chance to speak before Stiles’ laptop’s set aside on the coffee table and Stiles is crawling into his lap and kissing him full on the mouth, muttering, “Fuck this,” and “Derek,” against his lips, his breath hot.

It’s all instinct again, a spark of desire low in his stomach. That’s what he tells himself.

Stiles rides him that night, back arched and brows pinched, biting at his lip as he tries to supress the sounds because he knows that he has to be quiet this time, that it’s already past midnight, the middle of the night. The rolls of his hips are easy, a steady rhythm, and he doesn’t need Derek’s hands to guide him, but Derek grips at his hips anyway, just because he can, and Stiles doesn’t mind. They rock together, the movements not as frantic as before, and Derek looks at him, takes him in as Stiles gasps, mouth parted, eyes shut.

It’s not guilt, what Derek feels, because he has no reason to – Stiles is not a teenager anymore, not really, and he’s not a virgin, so it’s not like Derek’s taken something away from him. He can’t really label Stiles as just another person he’s only screwing, but he tries anyway, because Stiles is twenty and they both know that what they’re doing doesn’t really mean anything, that it doesn’t have to.

Derek thrusts up as Stiles rocks into him again, and Stiles cries out, grips Derek’s shoulders for leverage and speeds up, muscles trembling. Derek catches his mouth in a kiss, swallows his moans now when Stiles can’t really control them anymore, and he tells himself it doesn’t matter if they do it once or twice because it’s still just Stiles.

When Stiles comes, he gasps Derek’s name right against his lips.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t occur to him that it might not be that easy until weeks later, when he and Stiles have already fallen into some sort of a routine – _kiss, bite, pull, push_ – and Derek has given up trying to define it, really, what it is that they have. Stiles has always been different than others, after all, whether it’s because he’s so noisy and annoying or because of how sharp and smart he can be or just because he’s always been the only one not afraid to be completely honest with Derek, impertinent even.

So when after the second time, this night when Stiles rides him, there comes the third time, then fourth and fifth and more, somehow, Derek expects Stiles to see it all the way he sees it himself. And he has a feeling Stiles does, because he never stays after; doesn’t drag his feet like Derek was wary he would, doesn’t imagine and expect anything, even though he’s still young and technically could do that, sure. Instead, Stiles always gets dressed quickly and leaves, grinning or winking at Derek as a goodbye, or scratches at the back of his head absently and goes to take a shower before dashing out of the loft and never says anything when someone else is near, whether it’s Scott or Kira or Lydia.

It doesn’t bother him, no, but he doesn’t think he’s completely okay with it, either.

And then there’s one night when Stiles comes over and it takes them very little time to move to the bedroom, because Derek knows exactly why Stiles is here, so he hoists him up and muffles Stiles’ surprised yelp with a kiss. Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, opening his mouth as Derek heads to the bedroom and then presses Stiles to the door to close it and they kiss, hungrily and eagerly, kiss until Stiles pulls back, breathless.

“I want to blow you,” Stiles pants, and Derek’s grip on his thighs only tightens at that.

“Later,” he mutters, and goes and then lays him on the bed.

They fuck, Stiles’ legs wrapped around Derek’s waist again, fingers pulling at his hair as he moans and moves, trying to get in sync, and he sucks and bites at Derek’s neck until a bruise blooms on his skin. They both know it’ll fade away within seconds, that Derek will heal, but apparently Stiles doesn’t care, and as Derek fucks him into the mattress, he can’t help but wonder, for a split second, between one breath and another, if for Stiles it means the same thing it means to him – if he, too, sees it as leaving a mark, an _I was there_ sign, some kind of a warning or threat. And Derek doesn’t think so because Stiles is a human and humans don’t need to mark their territory like werewolves do, and Stiles just probably finds it a nice turn-on.

That’s fine; Stiles and Derek are only having sex, whether it’s just once or twice or more, and neither of them asked for any strings attached to this and it’s good the way it is now.

Then again, though, flashes in Derek’s mind, if it all weren’t exactly this way, he’d be fine with it, too.

Stiles does blow him later, just like he wanted, and he’s insanely good at it, and after that Derek sucks him off, too, has to pin Stiles’ hips down to the bed to keep him from moving too much. When Stiles’ muscles stop trembling eventually, he gets off the bed, runs a hand through his hair and goes to take a shower and Derek’s left alone in the room and that’s the exact moment it strikes him – he’s lying in tangled, dirty sheets, and they smell like sex and arousal, but mostly like Stiles and he knows the couch smells like that, too, knows that if they keep this thing between them going, soon the whole apartment will be soaked in the scent.

Derek thinks, _I could get used to that._

 

* * *

 

Then, there’s this one time when Derek really notices something’s starting to crumble.

It’s in his loft again, because somehow they never do it at Stiles’ place, and at first he doesn’t really see and understand just yet. Stiles appears at his doorstep unexpected, already smelling faintly of arousal and something else, something different, but when he shoots Derek a blinding, wide grin, winks at him muttering, “You’ve got a while, Derek?” only to pull him into a kiss two seconds later, Derek decides not to ask, lets it slide and ignores the way Stiles seems just slightly desperate for something, because he’s not really in a position to inquire anyway, right?

That’s what he thinks.

So Derek doesn’t ask when Stiles’ hands slide up under his shirt and doesn’t ask when he unbuckles his belt because if Stiles just wants to go to bed with him, then it’ll do. Stiles might not chuckle or smile like he usually does when things between them get like this, and his eyes don’t glint mischievously, the gleam in them replaced with something else, dimmer, but Derek tells himself it does not bother him, that he does not mind.

They don’t do it face to face this time, although Derek knows that’s how Stiles usually prefers it, and Stiles is mostly silent, only lets small gasps escape his mouth, ones Derek can barely hear over the sound of his rapid heartbeat, his chest pressed against Stiles’ back, one hand on his hip.

And it’s good, because it’s always good with him, and Derek kind of wants to tell him that after, when they finish and Stiles gets up first, as if in a hurry, more than he usually is.

“I should get going,” he groans, voice low, and then starts to put his clothes back on, looks around the room to find them, fish his own out from Derek’s.

And Derek still doesn’t know what it is on Stiles’ mind and still won’t ask, but suddenly he _wants_ to, more than before, and maybe it’s a problem he’s only noticed now. Maybe it should scare him in a way, and maybe it actually does, because he shouldn’t want to, wouldn’t want to if Stiles were just a good fuck like Derek told himself he was, and perhaps he missed the point when anything aside from their breaths mixed together and Stiles’ body against his started to matter, and he wonders, _How did I miss that?_

So he doesn’t ask Stiles what it is that’s bothering him so much, what it is that made him come here today, why he’s so strange, oddly desperate and simultaneously still distracted, because it’s not really his business, it shouldn’t be.

Instead, he says, “No,” and “Stiles,” and “You can stay.”

Stiles’ eyes are huge when he turns his head to look at Derek immediately, freezes in the middle of putting his pants on. He surely didn’t expect that, and for a second Derek thinks it was a bad thing to say, a bad move to make because why would Stiles _want_ to stay, anyway? Stiles keeps coming to him to fuck, doesn’t he, not to settle, a part of him says, so why would he want to stay?

Except that Stiles suddenly goes across the room and sits on the edge of the bed and kisses him full on the mouth, slowly and maybe even sweetly, more slowly than they’ve ever kissed before, pulls him in, his hand warm on Derek’s neck, and maybe it wasn’t that bad of a thing to say, after all.

Stiles doesn’t stay, he doesn’t because he has a study group he still has to meet with, he says, and he needs to make sure his dad eats something else than curly fries and a hamburger for dinner, and he says, “Sorry.” It sounds soft, almost, even if a little rough around the edges.

Derek shakes his head, a sign to let him know it’s fine, go, and then Stiles kisses him again just before he leaves the loft, and Derek’s pretty sure he could get used to that, too.

 

* * *

 

Something definitely shifts between them and honestly, Derek’s a little wary of defining what exactly.

He doesn’t really want to ponder on it, not yet, because he has a feeling that if he did, he’d step onto a ground unfamiliar and unknown to him, crossed a border of some kind, so instead he focuses on what he knows, not supposes. And what he knows is that the changes come unnoticed, slip between the ordinary days and stay there, because suddenly he no longer minds Stiles’ bad jokes and strange sense of humour; suddenly, they don’t only fuck anymore but sometimes just hang out with each other or only kiss, nothing more, and if he didn’t know better, he would even call it innocent. Stiles talk a lot, but Derek does, too, around him, and sometimes they bicker over some stupid TV shows, and later Stiles goes and steals food from his fridge because now he doesn’t rush out of the apartment anymore but occasionally stays a little longer as well.

So something shifts definitely, and changes, but Derek doesn’t want to label it as anything yet, and he has a feeling Stiles doesn’t either, because it’s good the way it is at the moment. They both don’t really know what they are doing just yet and that’s fine. It’s fine when Stiles moans in bed, grinding down on Derek, because he likes it, and it’s fine when he laughs when Derek flips them over and pins him to the mattress, because that he likes as well and it’s fine when they argue about what they should watch and do all these other things he’s never expected to do with Stiles.

But questions do come eventually.

“I had a fight with Scott today,” Stiles says one evening when they lie on the couch pressed against each other, tired, Stiles on top of Derek, his back against his chest and watch a movie they both have already seen. Derek doesn’t need to ask what the fight was about, not really, because he thinks he already knows anyway, he’s noticed all these glances Scott keeps shooting at him whenever he’s in the loft because Scott can smell Stiles all over this place, too, so he only hums low in his throat to show Stiles he’s listening, and then waits, because he’s sure Stiles is not yet finished. Somehow he knows – he doesn’t remember when or how he’s learned that but knows nevertheless – that Stiles at times needs a moment to put his thoughts into words before speaking, and if Derek doesn’t rush him, he’ll go on eventually, on his own.

He does.

“He asked about us,” Stiles says after a minute or so, and the words sound a little strangled, which makes Derek slightly tense, but he doesn’t speak. “You know, if we are –”

Stiles stops there, makes a vague hand gesture instead of phrasing the words, but then continues because Stiles is not a coward and if he needs to say something, he will. “If it’s something more than just sex.”

It comes out a little hasty and weird, and Derek forces himself not to still, even when he hears Stiles’ heartbeat stutter – not like he’s just lied, but in a different way. For him, it shouldn’t really be Scott’s business what it is Derek and Stiles have, but Scott is Stiles’ best friend, and that means something, too.

“And what did you tell him?” he says, then waits.

And Stiles, just a second too late, says, “That I don’t know.”

And Derek breathes in, stares at the top of Stiles’ head for a moment, but doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push or press further, because that’s enough for him, really. When Stiles, after a moment, snuggles deeper into him, relaxes against his chest, he thinks that maybe it’s some kind of way for Stiles to show him he’s grateful, a _thank you_ unspoken.

So Derek bends, tilts Stiles’ chin up just slightly and kisses him, even if it’s a little uncomfortable, because if that was Stiles’ way of showing gratitude, then this is his.

Stiles breathes into the kiss, closes his eyes, and Derek thinks that if Scott asked him, he’d say _I don’t know_ as well, because that’s not a yes, but it is not a no, either.

 

* * *

 

Then, it all shatters to the ground.

One moment, this precarious balance he and Stiles step so carefully around lasts still, and it seems to Derek like it will for a long time, because that’s what he wants, that’s what is comfortable and safe, not to put a name on something he’s afraid to label just yet, and the next it collapses and he suddenly doesn’t need to label anything because the reality does it for him.

It’s when Scott calls, and Derek picks up even though they haven’t really spoken since the day of Scott and Stiles’ supposed fight, and Scott only breathes, “Derek, I need your help,” and Derek immediately knows something’s wrong.

It’s the same pack of werewolves from another state they were supposed to be doing research on back in the day, it turns out, the one they all thought was not a threat anymore, far away from Beacon Hills at this point, except they were all wrong. They appeared out of nowhere, Scott says over the phone, voice low and on the verge of anger, and not even Deaton could see them coming.

And they have Stiles.

And suddenly Derek’s furious and scared and worried all at once because _they have Stiles_ , some werewolves stepped into his territory and took Stiles and who, Derek thinks storming out of the loft, the hell gave them the right to? And maybe all these emotions somehow play on his face, because Scott doesn’t say anything when he gets in his car, doesn’t speak a single word.

They find them in the woods, on the outskirts of the town, and Stiles doesn’t have a single scratch on him, but Derek shifts and throws one of those fuckers into a tree anyway, while Scott takes care of two others nearby. And it’s not all because Derek claims Stiles to be his, and it’s not like Stiles is his property or something equally ridiculous, no, of course not – Stiles doesn’t need to be anyone’s, he would do just fine on his own and Derek knows this because Stiles is strong, one of the strongest; it suddenly occurs to him, though, that Stiles might not be his, but Derek would very much want him to.

It tingles at his skin, this mere thought, and it is not because of fear.

“I’m okay,” Stiles says when Derek approaches him quickly back in his human form, answering an inquiry he hasn’t even phrased yet, and he sounds a little scared, but mostly relieved, with an edge to his voice Derek doesn’t recognise, one that sounds warm and reflects in his eyes. “They barely laid a finger on me, I’m okay.”

And he sounds, too, so Derek just exhales, a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, and nods.

Stiles then calls his dad, says he won’t be back home that soon and _don’t_ _worry, I’m a big boy_ , yet doesn’t touch Derek for the whole ride back to the loft, the destination they don’t say out loud but somehow both agree on, and then, when Derek’s hardly shut the door behind them, Stiles pulls him in, yanks at his jacket and kisses so desperately Derek _groans_ into his mouth and something inside of him seems to break.

Derek pushes him up into a wall in his living room because they only make it this far before he runs out of patience and Stiles doesn’t seem to have much of it left, either, because he barely manages to unzip his own pants, swearing a little, hands trembling, that’s how much of a hurry he’s in.

“I’m okay, Derek, I’m fine,” he mutters against his lips, as if he knew Derek had wanted to take it slow initially, and this is everything he needs to ditch these plans. Derek lifts him up, pins him to the wall, wraps Stiles’ leg tighter around his waist, gripping at his ankle, because he needs to touch him, everywhere and now, and it’s an urge he can’t ignore. He has to see for himself that Stiles is okay, that he’s there, warm and safe against him, and he wonders when he became so addicted to all of this, the sensation of skin on skin and the sound of Stiles’ voice.

And this time is nearly as frantic as the first, or maybe even more in a way, Derek’s nails – human nails, not claws – digging into Stiles’ thighs as he holds him close, as close as he can. Stiles clings to him, to the shirt neither of them had enough patience to take off, and his legs tremble as Derek moves, thrusts in deep and rough, and it pushes all those sounds out of Stiles’ throat that make Derek only want more. Stiles arches, moves his hips, too, pulling at Derek’s hair and desperately trying to get even more friction, and moans right against Derek’s temple, keeps gasping his name, over and over again, a litany of _Derek, Derek, fuck_ , _Derek_ , and his voice hitches, catches in his throat when Derek thrusts in just right.

This time it’s Derek who leaves a mark on Stiles’ neck, bites and sucks at the skin just under his jaw, and Stiles tips his head back with a cry, only seconds before he comes as Derek mouths against the bruise, groans, “Stiles.”

Stiles touches the triskelion on Derek’s back later, when they’re in bed, almost innocently, just barely brushes the tattoo with his fingertips, and then presses his lips to the skin between his shoulder blades, and Derek thinks that maybe Stiles already is his, maybe he’s been for a long time.

Stiles stays the night this time, and as he falls asleep, Derek stares at the mark on his neck, thinks _, It’s me right there._

 

* * *

 

And it’s not like Derek suddenly knows exactly what to do and how to act, the next day and later, because he might have noticed or discovered something, but the awareness is still brand new and doesn’t quite fit into his mind just yet, even though it certainly is there now. He doesn’t know and doesn’t say, no, because he’s still himself and with who he is, it doesn’t really work that way.

But with Stiles it doesn’t, either, and that’s something they have in common, apparently, one of not so many – or lots of, hell – things.

No one says the exact words, but they both know. They know.

Stiles kisses him over breakfast whenever he stays the night these days, and it’s his way to say _good_ _morning_.

And Derek doesn’t feel like he’s waiting for something to happen anymore, and it’s not as scary as he thought it would be, and he’s maybe a little surprised because it’s easy, to be with Stiles. Stiles might be a smartass and tease him and argue with him, but this is how it’s always worked between them and it is something Derek knows, this pattern, so he rolls his eyes at him and growls in response as Stiles laughs. Stiles leaves his clothes at the loft sometimes, and always comes in without bothering to knock and is messy and all over the place, and it annoys Derek beyond comprehension at times, at least until Stiles doesn’t come up to him and kiss him as a sign to say _I’m sorry_ , even though he’s not and simply knows that what he does somehow works on Derek, this bastard.

And Derek wouldn’t exactly say there’s love involved yet, not after all his former experiences in this territory, because he’s still wary and slightly afraid, okay, so he doesn’t say it, not out loud, maybe only thinks about it sometimes at night, Stiles sleeping next to him. What he feels, though, is different than all those others, previous times, or maybe it’s more like all of them combined.

There’s a bit of this overwhelming first love kind of feeling he once felt for Paige, and it sometimes gets to him at the strangest of times, when Stiles is making popcorn in the kitchen or reading some book in the living room. There’s this stupid, foolish infatuation he used to feel for Kate, and this is the part that scares him, really, but it is there nevertheless. There’s sexual tension and physical attraction and lust he felt for Jennifer, suddenly back with full force when Stiles whines and squirms under him, legs spread as Derek fingers him or jerks him off, Stiles’ skin flushed and muscles trembling. There’s admiration and respect he felt for Braeden when he watches Stiles diving into research or observes his bravery and stubbornness whenever he comes up with a new plan, and there’s this feeling he finally only associates with _Stiles_ , fresh and new.

There’s everything. It’s all there.

And he’s reluctant to say that he _loves_ just yet, because Stiles is loud when Derek prefers to stay silent and he's demanding and they’re both rough around the edges and love is such a strong word. There is something, though, spreading behind Derek’s sternum, and whatever it is, it’s strong, too, and thriving, and –

And they’ll get there, Derek thinks, both of them, he and Stiles.

He might not be quite fully, openly able to say what it is he feels for Stiles just yet, but Derek does _feel_ and the time will eventually come.

He has a feeling Stiles will be easy to love.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://angstandcats.tumblr.com)


End file.
